


Monochromatic

by sobering_stairs



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018), Villaneve - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Gay, I don't know what else to tag, Love Letters, Minor Violence, Psychopaths In Love, Soft Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Soulmates, Therapy, carolyn can't stand them, eve is the best girlfriend, like super gay, no like really gay, post 3x08, villanelle is so whipped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobering_stairs/pseuds/sobering_stairs
Summary: “It is only now that she has Eve that Villanelle realizes just how much she had missed being loved.”ORAfter the bridge, Villanelle begins seeing a therapist to help her cope with everything in her life. She does not expect it to be helpful, but she ends up having a breakthrough about her past, who she is now, and her love for Eve. Also, there is a love letter, because who doesn't love a good love letter? Basically Villanelle is 100%, without a doubt, head over heels in love with Eve.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 122





	Monochromatic

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy reading this!!! Special shoutout to Marissa for not only being the first one to read this but also for giving me the idea for the title!!! Sorry if there are any mistakes, I tried my best!

“How did killing people make you feel?” The therapist peers at Villanelle over her glasses, something which has never made sense to Villanelle. _If you’re going to wear glasses, what’s the point of not using them?_ Villanelle studies the woman sitting behind her desk, wondering how this will go down. The therapist’s head is cocked slightly to the side in a conscious attempt to prove she is listening. _As if I need reminding. I’m clearly the most fascinating patient she’s had in years, she’d be a fool if she didn’t pay attention._ Villanelle glances towards the right corner of the room, behind the desk, resisting the urge to scoff at how compact the space is. She always used to assume that if she got out of the assassination industry, she would at least make sure to have more to show for it than a windowless cube with hardly any decorations. Carolyn is leaning against the bookshelf shoved into the corner, unapologetically occupying the space. _So much for doctor-patient confidentiality._ The therapist just keeps looking at her, waiting, expecting, and Villanelle sighs. The woman will not give up. She knows she cannot tell her what she wants to hear. She knows she cannot tell her the truth. 

_The kills made me feel alive. They were fulminations of cabernet, mixtures of paint and blood battling a violent tango in my eyes, smearing liquid pain under my eyelids and over my irises, never enough to envelop my pupils. They were shards of glass slashing the soft tissue of my throat as I swallowed them, the accompanying wine an afterthought. The intoxicating capability the pain had of reminding me that I exist was always able to get me drunk in ways alcohol never could. The kills washed over me in bursts of agony and bone-chilling floods and white-hot embers igniting on my fingers, flitting across my entire body, singeing my hair and fileting my skin and turning my insides molten._

_In a life spent floating in a sea of endless grey, my kills were the unexpected wave crashing over me, knocking the air from my lungs, lodging plumes of salt and sand into my windpipe. They were the sudden bite of a great white shark, ripping through my flesh and shredding me apart from the inside out, reminding me that, even if just for a minute, I could swim and fight and_ **_drown,_ ** _not just float. They were the bolts of lightning that struck the surface, electrocuting every unsuspecting life in the surrounding water, condemning them to the satisfying finality of death. The kills made me feel alive, but they also gave me a look at what it would feel like to die. To crawl into my mind’s abyss and know I would not be the only one seeing in grey; I would have been like any other corpse, suffocating in soil, finally at peace, never to be bored again. When your only way of feeling alive is to tiptoe along the line of vitality, it makes you wonder if singular droplets of blood escaping into the waves-- attracting the next shark, the next chance to feel your heart pounding in your chest-- is worth it._

_When your whole life is grey and each occasional burst of color could be your last, it makes you wonder if you have ever been alive at all, or if your entire existence has been one elaborate illusion. A trick of the light. A coin with two heads. A black curtain that falls down, hiding the magician’s assistant-- if only I could have ripped away the curtain and attained the characteristics that would have made me human. A table to lie on and pretend to be sawed in half, only to be put back together by a man in a black hat-- if I could not add the missing pieces, maybe I could ask the magician to leave out some parts when putting me back together. If he listened and hacked away at me, allowing the saw to tear through my chest, what would he have found? Would there have been a heart? If he took that away, would it have made a difference? If he had not bothered with stitching me up and he left me there, in pieces, blood pooling around my lifeless form, waiting to be made as whole as I could have been, would it have mattered? Even if the magician swung the saw through my head, sending fragments of my skull and chunks of all the wrong parts of my brain flying onto his audience, would anything have changed? Was it possible for me to be any more empty than I already was?_

Villanelle digs her nails into her palms, just once, before relaxing them and erasing any sign of the confliction she is experiencing. She knows she cannot tell the therapist all of that, not with Carolyn here, and definitely not when she is not allowed to kill them both immediately after. The vulnerability, the honesty, the openness it all requires is too much for her; there is only one person she would ever consider being entirely truthful with, and she is the last person she wants to tell any of this. Villanelle can see the pair waiting for her to say _something,_ so she searches for a truth she can tell them without leaving herself wide-open. Finally, she settles on the one common factor in all of it:

“Red.”

“Red?” The therapist repeats, and _really, she is not very good at her job._ “Red like blood? Red like love?”

“Love is not red,” Villanelle cuts in, not one to enjoy being misunderstood.

“What is it?” She asks, although she must know she will not be getting an answer if Villanelle’s blank face and stiff shoulders are anything to go by. She sighs, trying a different question instead, “And what about now?”

  
  
“Now?” Villanelle asks, eyes briefly flickering over to Carolyn before returning to the therapist.

“What’s making you feel alive, now that you aren’t killing?”

Villanelle pauses at this. “I was always alive,” she mutters, allowing her posture to relax now that the other question has been abandoned, “I just didn’t realize it until now.”

  
  
“Now?” The therapist asks, echoing Villanelle’s earlier words. 

“Now that I’m truly living.” The words flow from her mouth smoothly, her accent softly curling around the consonants. 

Up until then, the woman sitting confidently in front of her boss and therapist on an uncomfortable leather couch, legs open in such a manner that can only be described as manspreading, hands loosely clasped between her knees where her elbows are perched, had been unwaveringly Villanelle. Now, with her slightly parted lips murmuring silent admissions of love, her gently furrowed brows betraying her distant focus, and her bright eyes illuminated with the image of a stubborn agent with a mane of curly hair and a bad fashion sense, the woman seated before them is undoubtedly Oksana. 

“I see,” the therapist clears her throat, the sound bringing Villanelle out of her daze. Carolyn meets the doctor’s eye and, despite neither of them speaking, it is clear their thoughts are one and the same. “Well, it looks like our time is up for today.” Then, “Nice work, Villanelle.”

  
  
Villanelle nods, the most she will allow herself to thank the woman for the session. “Finally. I thought I was going to look as old as you by the time I was allowed to leave,” she huffs, voice void of any bite it may have had in previous sessions. _The shrink is growing on me._ The therapist does not respond, but Villanelle knows she heard her. Satisfied, she closes the distance between herself and the door, desperate to be free of the room. _After spending so much time in prison, I’m not a fan of small spaces. Bite me._ Just as her fingertips are resting on the doorknob, about to turn it and allow her to escape, Villanelle freezes upon hearing her name fall from Carolyn’s lips.

“How does it feel now? This ‘living’?” 

Villanelle puffs a short laugh through her nose, raising her eyebrows good-naturedly, if not with a bit of surprise, as she takes in her boss’s quietly curious expression. _What the hell, why not?_ “She makes everything golden.” Villanelle offers up one last bit of honesty, and with that, she is gone, turning the corner long before the creaking door clicks shut, making her way back to the “she” in question. If she realizes she inadvertently answered the therapist’s earlier question, she does not show it. As she walks down the carpeted halls, her boots leaving shallow indents, she thinks that the therapist may not be so bad at her job after all. 

* * *

“That was our most successful session yet,” the therapist stands up, stretching slightly as she turns to Carolyn, “Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I believe so,” she replies. “I’m not one for small-talk. What do you think?”

“Really, Carolyn? I would’ve thought you’d have your own opinion on the matter,” she teases, unphased by the lack of reaction she is gifted in return.

“Of course I have an opinion, but I am not a psychiatric professional. That is why I have her seeing you.” Her tone is not rude; she has no need for it to be. Her straight-forward words get her point across just the same.

The therapist blinks once, twice, not one to get embarrassed, before speaking, “Well,” she starts, glancing briefly down at her notes just for something to do, “I never expected to see her behave this way after everything I know about her. Honestly, it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Yes, well, it appears she is more than we originally thought her to be.”

“The question is, which one is she?” The therapist begins, earning an eyebrow raise from Carolyn. “A psychopath, or a woman in love?”

  
Perhaps it does not matter that she is not the expert; being forced to work alongside the pair while Villanelle looks at Eve like she hung all the stars in the sky is expertise enough. With this in mind, Carolyn looks at the therapist and counters, “Why can’t she be both?” The air stills and both women know she is right. 

* * *

As reluctant as she is to admit it, living a life without killing is proving to be exceedingly difficult for Villanelle. Not because she misses the kills, the planning, or even the payments, but because of how challenging she finds it to express herself without it. Her kills used to be how she opened up, how she let out her fleeting troubles or desires to the world. She had gone decades of her life without someone to talk to, someone who cared, and she had learned to cope with it. When she found herself in need of letting some hidden truth fight its way to the surface, all she had to do was check the mail and study her newest postcard. When it was just her and her victim, she had no trouble letting her walls down and showing them the broken person within. It was lonely, killing each person she opened up to, so she found herself killing more and more to fill the void. When she lost count of how many people she had killed, Villanelle lost sight of the person within, and she found that the loneliness ceased to matter. 

It is different now that she has Eve. The person inside is no longer fighting her way out; instead, Villanelle and that broken person are one and the same. She is trying, though, and Eve is right there beside her during every nightmare, every outburst, every meltdown, and Villanelle is starting to think that her recovery is less about the person she will become and more about having someone fight for her while she fights for herself. 

As much as she wants to run away with Eve, away from their past mistakes and emotions and wounds, she knows no amount of distance will heal her battered soul. Only time will do that and with that comes the need for patience. Patience has never been one of Villanelle’s good qualities, nor is it something Eve claims to possess, but when it comes to the younger woman, Eve has been nothing but patient. She holds Villanelle when she wakes up quivering, forgetting her own exhaustion to listen to her ramble on about her nightmares in Russian-riddled wails, despite not understanding the language. She stays awake beside her all night, watching for the tell-tale signs of another frightful awakening, and she always makes sure to have a mug of steaming tea and a blackberry scone waiting for Villanelle when she stirs in the morning. When they are dancing to the radio while preparing dinner, Eve is sure to change the station upon hearing Elton John, and when the blonde’s eyes fill with tears, she knows her well enough to pretend not to notice. 

When Eve catches on to Villanelle’s inexperience with being vulnerable, she suggests they write one another letters about the “serious stuff” instead of saying it out loud. Villanelle can take her time with writing, without the pressure of finding the perfect words, and it makes her feel less exposed. The small gesture of Eve attempting to figure out how to help her had brought tears to her eyes. Nobody had ever stuck around long enough to get through to her before; nobody had ever cared. It is only now that she has Eve that Villanelle realizes just how much she had missed being loved.

* * *

_Darling Eve,_

_For so long, I thought I was incapable of feeling. My entire life was still. Monochromatic. Dull. Static. Boring. Everything I did was to try and make my world a little less grey. That is why I killed. For the briefest of moments, a pinprick of blood would form in my eyes, allowing me to see a flash of color. For a single second, a ripple of red disrupted the otherwise smooth grey surface, and then my life was back to normal once again like nothing had happened. I thought that was all I would ever get: occasional pinpricks of blood. I thought it might have been what I deserved- my punishment for taking the lives of so many._

_When I met you, everything changed. To me, you are the Sun. You are the person my entire life revolves around, shamelessly, without regret. Your light is so bright, you turn my whole world golden. My life is not grey anymore. You shine so brightly, it is blinding. It is so intense, it nearly hurts to look at you, nearly burns my retinas right out of my eyes. It doesn't matter- I would sooner go blind than ever look away._

_I have never felt this way before. The only other person who could change the palette of my life was Anna, but it was nothing like this. Anna was magenta. Whatever she touched would turn magenta, too. Briefly. But then time would pass and eventually, everything would return back to the way it once was. It was never enough… she was never enough. She never made me feel warm like you do. Her magenta was too harsh, too scalding, and all it did was hurt. She made me feel something, but that something was pain. You do not make me feel something… you make me feel everything. I have found myself because of you._

_At the beginning of our journey, I would have chased you around the world just to bask in your light. Luckily, I never had to because you were more than willing to chase after me. Now, I would never chase you. Not because I wouldn’t want to- I want nothing more than to be with you- but because in order to chase you, I would first need to scare you away. I promise you now, I will never do that. Not again. Not after Rome. When I think of the person I want to be, I think of who I want to be for you. Your warmth fills me up, and I want to be that same person for you- not the person you run from, but the person you run to. I now know you are not mine to own, but I have always been yours. I trust you with my heart and I desperately hope you trust me with yours- not to own, but to love._

_Eternally Yours,_

_Oksana_

* * *

When they first started writing the letters, Villanelle pretended the ink was blood. She imagined her pen contained an endless supply, pictured herself as Death itself, and thought of all the ways she could capture the passion she once had for taking lives in a single droplet. As time went on, and the letters grew longer, she stopped pretending. Instead of imagining the ink was delicate streams of merlot, liquor stolen from someone’s veins, carefully decorating the page with vague descriptions and half-truths, Villanelle realized her mistake: she was once again using something to hide who she really is. She used to do that because she knew nobody wanted the real her. They wanted Villanelle, an artist whose medium was pain. Luckily for them, Villanelle had an endless supply of pain inside of her, ensuring she would never run out. Maybe if someone had looked a little deeper, past the expensive clothes and wild eyes and taste for control, they could have stopped so much blood from being spilled. Villanelle finds it ironic that Eve, the woman who has lost everything because of her, is the one who cares enough to dig deeper into the monster that is Villanelle. It is only when she realizes this that Villanelle starts signing her letters with “Oksana”. By then, she no longer imagines the ink is blood; she imagines it is tangible proof of her love.

She is no longer hiding. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I am thinking about writing a second chapter that focuses on Eve similarly to how this one focused on Villanelle... please tell me what you think about that!! 
> 
> Please take a few moments to help out https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/# | https://helpyemen.carrd.co/ | https://lgbtqpl.carrd.co/


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